Not Cricket
by missy mee
Summary: It didn't occur to the Doctor that Rose and Mickey might want to share a bed. Mickey gets more than he bargained for when he asks to borrow some... protection. Post School Reunion


When the Doctor had agreed to have Mickey stay with the two of them on board the TARDIS, he'd done so in a fit of charity

When the Doctor had agreed to have Mickey stay with the two of them on board the TARDIS, he'd done so in a fit of charity. A few hours later, however, he was seriously considering risking a paradox in order to travel back to the fateful moment and tell his past self exactly where he could stick his charity. Because those few hours ago, one vital thing had not occurred to him. Strange to think now, really, that he hadn't considered it. Because right now he couldn't _stop _considering it. From every possible angle. Literally.

It had simply not occurred to the Doctor that Rose and Mickey might intend to share Rose's bedroom. It was only when Rose, made slightly less frosty by her tiredness, had announced that she was going to bed and taken Mickey off with her, leading him by the hand. Leaving an enlightened and horrified Doctor in their wake.

Mickey and Rose. Together. In Rose's bedroom. In Rose's _bed_. Under Rose's duvet.

Anything could happen under a duvet – literally anything – as he'd learned several centuries ago during his brief stint at matrimony, not to mention negotiations with an animated brick on Errogathne 7. All the possibilities that a duvet offered would probably be considered a plus by most people. Not the Doctor. Because he was realizing gradually and to his utter horror, than a) humans were horny as a species, and b) Rose wore very short, very silky pyjamas.

That was assuming that the two of them even bothered with pyjamas in the first place. More likely they'd fall on one another like a pair of lust-crazed howler monkeys, tweaking and pawing willy nilly. Then they'd dissolve, wracked with throaty moans, in a writhing mass of pink and brown and black and yellow. Right on Rose's daisy patterned bedspread. With her teddy bear watching.

Nauseating really didn't cover it.

The worst thing was that the more the Doctor attempted to cease to think about the appalling reality of Rose and Mickey having sex, the better the sex the two of them were having in his head was. After ten minutes of tortured contemplation, as far as his mind's eye was concerned the two of them were going at it like it was an Olympic sport, sweat sheened and panting like a pair of lithe young racehorses.

He thought Rose was better than this. He'd always considered her far too intelligent to relish being pawed by such a colossal species of idiot, although presumably she must have at some point. And no wonder, if Mickey was one tenth of the sex god that the Doctor was unwillingly envisaging. Lucky imaginary Rose.

This thought was more than enough to fill the Doctor with an overwhelming desire to dice Mickey into fine cubes and fry him up in olive oil and a sprig of sage.

So it really was dreadful timing on the aforementioned idiot's part to walk shirtless into the console room, with an unbearably smug, I'm-gonna-get-some-luvin' expression plastered all over his stupid face.

"Alright mate?" he enquired breezily. Clearly the fact that he was about to shag Rose Tyler had elevated his self esteem, because he didn't look nearly as apprehensive as he usually did when addressing the Doctor. The Doctor grunted (which wasn't like this incarnation, but he didn't trust himself to speak without blurting out something along the lines of 'Touch Rose and I'll beat you round the head with a dead Slitheen). He was unwilling to respond to the term 'mate' when his feelings for Mickey at that very moment were so very, very far from matey. He was not Mickey's mate, chum or buddy. He was not his pal, his piss-up partner, his home dawg, or his compatriot.

"Sorry to ask…" Mickey grinned sickeningly, deeply chuffed with himself, "But we was wondering if you got any… y'know. Protection.."

The Doctor tried very, very hard not to growl. He'd said 'we'. He'd used a plural pronoun. He might as well have said 'I'm doing the dirty with Rose, gimme a rubber or I'll intimidate you with my gigantic knob.'

Bastard.

He wondered what would happen if he just opened the TARDIS door and kicked Mickey the Goddamn Lucky Idiot out on his arse. Something good, surely?

But instead, he beamed at him in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink-aren't-we-macho sort of way. Because Mickey having sex with Rose on his ship simply wasn't cricket, but there was nothing like a biology lecture to kill The Mood.

"Protection, eh? For Mickety Mick Mickey? Mickety Mick Mickey and his lovely lady friend, Miss Rose? Rosie Posey Pudding'n'Pie?"

Blind rage made him more liable to play with words than usual. Good way of lulling potential nemeses into a sense of false security. Mickey looked slightly less cocky. Result.

"Isn't Rose on the Pill, anyway?' the Doctor enquired, in a tone that was altogether too cheerful for someone referring to the contraceptive methods of his female travelling companion with whom he claimed to share an entirely platonic relationship. Mickey shifted awkwardly, not meeting the Doctor's eyes.

"She said… because time's all weird on the TARDIS… she can't be sure…"

"Quite right, too! Smart girl, that one. When you're on the TARDIS you lose the sense of having a regular body clock, which is essential to the use of the contraceptive pill, you know. Surpresses the secretion of gonadotropin, and in some cases FSH. Secreted by the pituary gland, you see. Tricks the body, stops the stimulations of follicles to inhibit the release of eggs, so old Rosie won't be cranking out any mini-Mickeys. Clever eh? Quite ahead of its time. But miss a day and you don't know where you are. Better be safe than sorry. Will you be requiring prophylactics?"

All the time he'd been speaking he'd been striding down a corridor in the TARDIS, Mickey trailing behind, to the bathroom where he kept the contraceptives. Never really needed them himself, of course, being virtually asexual and probably sterile to boot, but he'd traveled with Jack for a significant period of time, and therefore accumulated quite a stash. He seized a box of Durex and shook it. Mickey grinned gratefully, reaching for the box, only to have it yanked out of his reach.

"Although, really, that's a bit boring, innit? I suppose two adventurous humans like yourselves would rather go for something a bit more dynamic. Ribbed?"

Mickey shook his head, his ears reddening.

"Uh, no, it's alright. I'll just…"

"Flavoured!" the Doctor yelled happily, spotting an interesting looking multipack. "Strawberry! Mint! Coconut! Ooh, banana. Fancy banana? Everyone loves bananas!"

"Honestly…" Mickey insisted, looking very much like he'd like to run away, but hung in there doggedly, still hoping to get that damn johnny.

"Or glow in the dark?" the Doctor ripped open one packet and flicked the lightswitch, giggling happily as he stretched the glowing condom into bizarre shapes. "Might be a good idea. Best to be able to see what you're doing, eh?"

Mickey now looked a lot less like a dapper young mechanic who was about to get some, and a lot more like an embarrassed teenager.

"Seriously, just the…"

He grabbed the most straightforward looking box off the shelf, the tips of his ears burning. The Doctor sighed.

"Just… boring? Never had you down for a stick in the mud, Mickey, my lad."

"Yeah… well…"

Armed with his contraceptives, Mickey turned and legged it down the corridor. The Doctor sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Despite his best efforts, it looked like Mickey was still getting laid tonight.

But then, a second later, an annoyed voice reminded him exactly why Rose Tyler was so damned perfect.

"Mickey, bugger off! I told you, _not tonight!_ Forget it!"

There was a protesting noise, and somewhere far off, a slammed door echoed.

The Doctor couldn't stop the grin from tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wondered whether a victory dance might be a bit un-Time Lordly.

He came to the conclusion that it was. But he'd never been much good at the stately Time Lord act, and danced anyway. Maybe even whooped. Maybe even punched the air. Just a bit.

That was probably the closest I'll ever come to writing smut. It was a bit of a bizarre plot bunny, but it made me laugh and hopefully it made a few of you laugh too.

**On a completely unrelated note, there is a certain user on here who appears to really, really hate me, and spends quite a silly amount of time reading and flaming my work, then putting it into a C2 archive for bad DW fics. Which seems a bit bizarre to me anyway – you only get one C2. Shouldn't you use it a bit more constructively? But each to their own. The point of what I was saying was that I checked out aforementioned C2 archive, and to be fair, some of the stories were terrible. However, there were also some stories in there from authors who I really respect, like LunaLovegood5 and Kathryn Shadow, which leads me to the conclusion that this user is really rather dim. And I'm really rather honoured to be put in a 'bad' C2 with two such brilliant authors. So I'd just like to thank this user, if they're reading. You do me a great honour.**

**Adios!**


End file.
